


Out of the Woods

by Kass



Series: The Sentinel fanworks [14]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: 2001, Angst, First Time, M/M, traumatized!Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-30
Updated: 2008-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of the Into the Woods trilogy. Published in 2001 (I think.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Justine and Kelyn and Owlet (oh my!): Justine for keeping my voices straight, Kelyn for saving me from logical impossibilities, and Owlet, for that final beta-read.

What a bitch of a month. I realize the life of a cop isn't supposed to be predictable, but this takes the cake.

Two weeks ago everything was normal, or what I'd come to think of as normal: police work, sharing the loft with Sandburg, nothing unexpected. Sure, I was still having wet dreams about the kid, but that was nothing new. I wasn't saying anything about them, and that was nothing new either.

Then I found Sandburg's notebook with my name pressed all over it. Along with a variety of lewd suggestions. And for once my senses actually came in handy, if you'll pardon the pun. We had a delicious week. And then the shit hit the fan: old memories surfaced and my libido shut down like a crashed computer.

If you'd tried to warn me in advance about this string of events, I wouldn't have believed you. Not for all the tea in China.

And yet here we are. From zero to sixty in fifteen seconds. From repressed to explosive and right back to repressed.

Ugly situations and I are old friends, but this one is worse than most. This thing just jumped out of my fucking subconscious. Jungle dangers, I can listen for; criminals, I can shoot at; this, I don't know what the hell to do with.

And apparently, neither does Sandburg.

* * *

  
He's nervous about sex now.

Which is kind of funny, when I step back and think about it. Blair Sandburg, Cascade's favorite Romeo, is scared to touch me.

I can tell he still wants to; the clues I missed before don't slip by me now. His heartbeat still spikes when he sees me wrapped in a towel, he still climbs eagerly into bed. But we haven't done anything but kiss since last Saturday, and that's been pretty chaste. He touches me like I'm made of porcelain.

On the one hand, it's driving me a little nuts. I want to shake him and say, "I'm not breakable, damn it," and watch his eyes light up.

On the other hand, I'm not sure I can instigate anything sexual right now. I'm not breakable; I'm not; and yet I'm upset by this memory that's brought itself to the forefront of my consciousness. Who knows what else is buried in there?

I don't even want to think about it.

I'm waiting for him to go off about learning opportunities. To mention that god-damned dissertation. Bubble about a chapter on "Repressed Childhood Abuse and the Modern Urban Sentinel" or something. So help me, if he tries to turn this into research I'm going to have to kill him. Or myself. I'm not sure which.

But it's been almost a week and he hasn't said anything like that. Hasn't made a move toward the note pads.

This isn't about the research. _We_ aren't about the research. I know that. So why do I keep expecting him to revert to that, why am I waiting to be punched in the gut?

* * *

  
Walking toward the coffee shop I hear a child crying. Sounds like she's in hysterics. Sandburg doesn't hear, no surprise there, and at first he says it's probably just some kid with a skinned knee. By the time we both have coffee in hand, she's still crying, and something about it feels wrong. I follow the sound to an apartment building, one of those super-expensive, used-to-be-a-warehouse ones. Wrought-iron railings, fancy flower boxes on the windows, and a little girl on the park bench wailing her heart out.

The kid barely comes up to my hip, and there's no adults in sight, at least not any that seem connected with her. There's a faint smell of something that bothers me, but I can't place it.

I try to be soothing but it's clear I scare the shit out of her: she hides behind Sandburg. He waves me away. I go around the corner, where the kid can't hear me, and of course I listen. She gets calmer after I'm gone, and he asks her name, which is Molly, and how old she is, which is six, and then he asks, very gently, what happened.

"Trish invited her boyfriend over," she says, sniffling. "And now they're gone."

"Who's Trish, honey?" Sandburg's never sounded so paternal. Makes me think about him and kids, what kind of father he'd be. Damn it all, I'm turning into a mushball. I'm not going to tell him that, either.

"Babysitter," the little girl says, and there's a sudden sick feeling at the pit of my belly.

There's a rustling sound: Sandburg stroking her hair, I think. "Keep talking, Molly. We're here to help you. What did Trish do?"

"He wanted to play a bad game," she whispers. "He said I couldn't tell anybody."

The faint smell comes into focus: it's semen.

I dash for the garbage can and barely make it before I throw up breakfast.

Sandburg calls the station and gets Brown out there to watch the kid while we track down her parents. Mostly Sandburg tracks down her parents, who turn out to be lawyers, and who of course had no idea that their teenage babysitter's boyfriend was even coming to their house, much less assaulting their daughter. I'm basically out of commission for the day.

At one point, sitting at my desk with my head in my hands, I smell Simon approaching: cigar, leather jacket, aftershave. I hear Sandburg whisper "Sentinel stuff," as an explanation for my immobility (bogus, but Simon doesn't know that - or does he? Either way, he seems to accept it), I hear a crinkle of leather as Simon nods, and then there's a pause.

"Take him home," Simon says, and Blair comes to get me.

"Simon says we can go," he says softly, as if I didn't hear the order myself.

"I heard him, you don't have to tell me again," I snap when he reaches for my arm, and he backs off. His face is carefully blank, although I can see Simon's face out of the corner of my eye and it's obvious he thinks I'm being a dick.

"Let's go, Jim," Sandburg says, and walks flatly out of the bullpen, not turning around.

* * *

  
We're both quiet the whole way back to the loft: I'm still half-sick from the events of the day, he's smarting from the tone in my voice. I know he's waiting for me to apologize, but I can't seem to make myself say anything.

When we get inside he comes up behind me to put his arms around me, and I can't help it: I flinch.

He backs away like he's been hit.

"I'm going for a walk," he says, the hurt in his voice clear as day, and he turns around and leaves.

I sit down. It's only after he's out the door that I fall apart: shaking like a dry leaf, whispering for him to come back, but he's already gone.

* * *

  
He comes home about an hour later, his face bright from the wind, cold air radiating from his curls. Once again he finds me sitting motionless. He's still a little angry at me: he stands a good two feet away and says my name.

"I'm not zoning," I say, and he nods, still looking at me but making no motion to touch.

There's a pause, and after a minute he starts to move away, and I grab his wrist, which pulls him into an almost-kneel. "Don't go," I say.

He looks surprised, then seems to realize what I mean. "I'm not going anywhere. But I can't crouch like this - tough on the knees." He smiles a little, tentatively, and I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It's going to be okay. That's what I'm telling myself: it's going to be okay. I let him go. I hear him stand, flex his knees a minute, then move to sit beside me. There's a careful space between us.

I look at him: his face shows nothing.

I want to say everything I've been thinking for the last hour, but "I'm sorry, Chief," is all that will come out.

"S'okay, Jim," he says, quietly. "I know that case had to upset you."

Understatement of the year, I think, but I just nod.

"It just hurt that, after all this time, you still jerked away when I tried to hold you."

After all this time. After three years of friendship, and living together, and working together, and more near-death scrapes than I care to think about. After two weeks of romance. After all this time.

His ability to say what he feels still amazes me. I swallow hard: it's my turn, I owe it to him to try. "It's not...you, Chief," I say, and he is looking at me with such gentleness that I have to close my eyes again. "It's me. It's wrong with me."

"Open your eyes, Jim," he says, quiet but forceful. "Look at me. _Look_ at me, damn it." And I do. "There's nothing wrong with you. Are you listening to me?"

For a second I think I'm going to cry, or be sick again, but neither of those is what I want to do and I fight them both down. "I hear that," I quip weakly. Imitating Naomi's a lame joke at this point, but he laughs anyway.

Then my mind returns to fear. "You're not worth this," the fear sings.

Quick as lightning rises the other fear, the sister fear, the first fear's twin: "He's going to write about this," it whispers. "The world's going to know."

I try to bite it down, but some ugly part of me speaks up, trying to goad him into turning this to research so I can be right about knowing he was going to hurt me.

"So, Darwin, you think this is connected to the Sentinel thing?" I ask.

"I don't follow, Jim," he says.

"Shit, maybe all Sentinels are raped as kids." I know my voice is going bitter but I can't seem to tone it down. Sandburg's starting to look upset. I keep talking. "Burton say anything about that?"

His face is flushed but his voice is level. "Jim, you're not making sense."

I push harder. "Or will this be your very own discovery? Maybe if I turn out to be a real disaster they'll name it after you." I don't think I realized I was capable of this much venom, but there it is.

I expect him to look angry, or shattered, or hurt. And maybe he is, but now he's not showing it. Now he looks like a statue.

"I'm not going to write about this, Jim, if that's what you're asking."

It's like I'm a balloon and he's punctured my skin: the anger hisses out and dissipates.

There's a long pause.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, looking down at my hands. "I can't believe I just said that."

"It's okay, Jim," he says. He's been saying that a lot lately. Too often.

"It's _not_ okay. I hate this thing. It's like the senses. God damn it, I didn't ask for this."

He nods and his eyes cloud slightly. "You never asked for the senses, either."

It's more of a statement than a question, and I'm about to nod. Then I realize what he's saying: you never asked for the senses, you never wanted them, which means you never wanted me. He's not putting his research between us; _I'm_ the one who won't let us forget the power dynamic. I'm the one reminding him that we started with research, not with romance.

God. He wouldn't hurt me, so now I have to hurt him? Great, Ellison, that's the way to hang on to the ones you love.

"That's not it," I hasten. He's looking down now, toying with a shoelace. "Sandburg," I begin, then awkwardly shift to "Blair," and it works: he looks up, a little surprised. "Blair, you know that's not it. I wouldn't trade you for anything."

He half-smiles, and something in my ribcage is lifting painfully, a bird beating powerful wings.

Then his face becomes serious again. "You call the shots, Jim," he says. "You _flinched_ when I tried to hold you, you have no idea how much that hurt. I mean, what the hell do you think I am?" His voice is rising.

"Look, Chief," I begin, and he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

"No, Jim, hear me out. This really sucks, okay?" He's digging his fingers into his temples, as if pressure from the outside could cancel out the pressure from within, make the anger go away. I nod: yes, it sucks, I agree.

I think only one of us can freak out at any given time. Now that I'm calm, it's his turn.

"I don't know what I have to do to prove to you that this isn't about the fucking research, man," he says. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not here to fucking _attack_you. I'm not here to write about you. Don't you fucking _get_ it?"

He curses more when he's furious.

I don't know what to say.

He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to deal with this shit from you. I can't read your mind, I don't know what you want. So everything's up to you. If you want my touch, you tell me so. Otherwise I won't touch you. If you want me to sleep downstairs for a while, I can do that too."

"No." The word's out of my mouth before I can think about it. "Please. I didn't mean it. Stay with me." And I don't just mean the room he sleeps in, I mean stay with me, don't leave me, get me through this, _guide_ me through this. And I'm not sure if he hears all of that, but he gives me a small smile.

"There's no place I'd rather be," he says, the quirk of his upper lip half-mocking the sap in what he's saying, but his eyes making sure I know he means it anyway.

* * *

  
We're even more chaste the next few days. We barely touch. It's almost like before, when we were both so scared of letting our desire show that we all but stomped it out.

It's his eyes that keep me going. Sometimes I can feel him looking at me, and I know he still wants me, I know he's just waiting until I can handle it again, and it's like a lifeline. Twisty, hard to grip, but present. Enough to get me through.

* * *

  
I drag Sandburg out for dinner one night, to an Italian place where I can get something relatively mild and he can order whatever he wants. True to form, he orders the spiciest thing on the menu, a puttanesca. I needle him a little about his wanton taste in pasta sauce, and I think he's surprised I'm capable of cracking a joke (God - have I been that much of a bear?), but he recovers quickly and makes fun of my linguine with butter-and-garlic. Says it's boring.

"Watch it, Chief, garlic's an aphrodesiac," I inform him, twisting a pile of noodles onto my fork and dunking it in the melted butter again before sucking it, deliberately, into my mouth. Being out to dinner feels good, feels normal, and enough time has passed since I broke my ugly secret to Sandburg that I'm starting to feel like maybe the sky isn't going to fall after all.

He looks so happy it almost snaps me in two. I hate that this repressed memory bullshit is making me weepy at weird moments.

"What? Innuendo from Jim Ellison?" he asks, lightly, and anyone else would think he was kidding, but I can feel the real question underneath.

I reach under the table and fumble for his hand. We hold hands for a minute, and he presses almost hard enough to hurt, and it makes me smile.

* * *

  
Three in the afternoon on Friday and Simon's door swings open. He yells, "Ellison!" and I get up to go in there, and of course Sandburg gets up too, and Simon waves his hand no. "I don't need you, Sandburg," he says, and I can feel Blair's posture sink a little. I turn back around for a second.

"It's okay, Chief," I say, quietly. And that small reassurance seems to make a difference; he sits down, nods, picks up some papers.

I go into Simon's office, he closes the door, I take a moment to get used to the smell of unlit cigar and burned coffee, the Simon's-office smell.

"All right, Jim, there's something going on with you and Sandburg and I need to know what it is."

I was expecting a question about one of the cases I'm working on, not this, and I guess it shows. He raises an eyebrow and I realize my look of surprise probably says more than I meant for it to.

"I don't know what you're referring to," I say, making my face blank.

He shoots me an exasperated glance. "You're acting strange around each other. Is there some kind of Sentinel thing going on? Are you having a problem with your senses?"

"Of course not, Simon," I say, quickly. He knows it drives me nuts when he and Sandburg jump to Sentinel conclusions. "We'd tell you if it were something like that."

"Then what is it, Jim?"

I'm quiet for a minute, trying to figure out what he thinks is wrong so I can give him the answer he's looking for.

"Did you both pick the same girl to flirt with?" I can see the hint of laughter behind his eyes. "Come on, tell me what it is. I'm a divorced father, for crying out loud. I don't date. I live vicariously through the exciting exploits of my men."

I can't help snorting, and he looks triumphant: he's broken my stone face.

"Well, Jim? Spill it," he orders.

"Isn't this a little personal, Captain?" I counter, making sure he notices I'm using his title instead of his name.

He scowls. "Come on, Jim, you've known me too long to act like that."

He's right, of course, and we both know it. I decide if he can startle me with a bald-faced question, I can startle him with a bald-faced answer. He wouldn't have asked if he didn't already know, right?

"We're lovers, Simon," I say. Lovers who haven't made love in over a week, since I'm skittish as an unbroken race horse, but that's definitely more than Simon needs to know.

For a second I think he's going to choke on his cigar. He takes it out of his mouth and looks at it like it's an alien thing.

Then he starts laughing. "Serves me right for asking," he mutters.

"Damn right it does," I say, and he puts the cigar back in his mouth and looks at me.

"Is this going to change the way you work together, Jim?" he asks.

I can feel myself getting defensive. "You didn't care about that when I was screwing Carolyn," I say, probably a little louder than I meant to. He glares again. Nobody in the world can go from laughter to glaring as quickly as Simon Banks, I'd bet money on it.

"As a matter of fact, Jim, I did care about that when you were _screwing_ Carolyn," he says, putting emphasis on repeating my term, which makes me wince a little. "The two of you weren't even partners, and when your marriage went sour it still affected the entire station."

I take a deep breath and let it back out again. Another thing I won't tell Sandburg: his breathing techniques really are calming.

"Simon," I say, trying to placate now, "Sandburg and I have already been through more shit than I care to remember. We work well together. The fact that we're partners in more ways than one is just going to make that better."

He looks at me for a minute, then nods slowly, as if he believes me. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a cigar, and says, "Here. Give this to Sandburg. My congratulations. You're a difficult son of a bitch, but God help me, I'm glad you're here anyway." He sighs, as if this admission pains him. "_Both_ of you." He turns his attention to the papers on his desk again, which I interpret as a signal to get the hell out of his office, so I do.

Not like I'm going to let Sandburg even think about smoking this thing. Cigar smoke stays in your clothes and hair - even people with normal senses admit that. I don't think I could deal with having my lover smell like my boss.

But I carry it out with me anyway.

Back in the bullpen Sandburg's sitting at my desk trying to look absorbed in paperwork. He almost succeeds, except that he's holding a file folder upside-down. I can tell he's been trying to listen in on our conversation. Too bad I'm the one who's always "sensing what others can't." Did I just make a joke about his diss? Good thing I didn't say it out loud, he'd never let me live it down.

I hand him the cigar. "Congratulations from Simon," I say. He looks at it, puzzled, then at me. I can see the understanding dawn; it makes me laugh.

"Oh, man," he says. "Oh, man." His face breaks into the most spectacular grin. "Wait 'til I tell Naomi," he says. I shoo him out of my chair and take the folder back, right-side-up this time. He stands there, leaning on my desk, cigar in hand. When I'm sure nobody's looking, I give him a swat on the ass. He looks at me, surprised, and I can feel his heat rising.

It pleases me.

* * *

  
I'm in the jungle again. It's not the jungle I remember: it looks the same, but the feeling is different. Thick vines cling to my ankles and knees like they're trying to make me fall. Somehow I become trapped in the brush. There's a presence behind me, and I don't know what it is, but I don't like it. Somewhere in the distance a child is screaming, a horrible noise. I can feel the tropical air making me sweat, and its dripping into my eyes, but I can't reach up to wipe it away. It feels suspiciously like tears.

"Jim, man, come back," says the Guide voice, and I thrash around for a minute and open my eyes. We're in bed. It's the middle of the night. I'm covered in sweat and the sheets are all over the place. Blair's holding me still, and both of our hearts are racing.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Nightmare," I croak, and reach for the water by the bedside, and take a long, thirsty gulp.

"Was it -" he begins, and I can tell he's going to ask if it was about Terry, and then he goes silent.

It wasn't about Terry, it was about the jungle, is what I think I'm going to say, but what comes out of my mouth is, "Yeah. I was in the jungle and I think he was coming after me again. I could hear a kid crying."

"You heard yourself," he says, a trace of wonderment in his voice. "That was probably you, Jim."

Part of me wants to tell him he's full of shit, but part of me agrees with him, and the second part is stronger. "Yeah," I say, and Jesus, my voice cracks a little.

He reaches down and pulls up the blanket, and wraps his arms around me, and we're spooned together. You wouldn't think a guy his size could spoon around a behemoth like me, but it works. He presses his lips to the back of my neck and I shiver, and once I start shivering I can't seem to stop.

"It's okay," he's soothing, "I'm here, just tell me what you want."

And it's like my vocal chords have been taken over by my subconscious, by whatever part of me admitted the dream was about Terry, because I don't intend for these words to come out of my mouth but they do anyway. "Let me touch you," I say, and I can feel his heat rising again, like it did at the office today. He's struggling to pretend he's unaffected, he doesn't want to scare me, but it doesn't matter. I'm scaring myself. I need this. "Please," I say, and that seems to undo him: he lets go of me, we turn so that I'm holding him, we're both still shaking.

I pull his hair out of the way and kiss the back of his neck. Nothing seems to drive him crazier than being touched there. He tastes salty under my tongue, and he's sighing a little. Without thinking I let my hearing open and the sound sets my nerves on fire.

I run my hands over him, re-learning. He tries to touch my arms, to guide me, and I push his hands away. I want him to lie still and let me do this. I move away, push him onto his back, bring myself up over him. I am crushing him but neither one of us cares. I take his nipple between my teeth, the one with the glinting silver ring, and he groans. I'm going crazy.

They say abused kids turn into their abusers, but I'm not like Terry: I'm not. These sounds he's making are proof that I'm not. Proof that he wants this. I'm greedy for those sounds.

I scent my way down his body, I take him in my mouth, an explosion of sound and scent and flavor. And then I pull away.

He is sheened with sweat and gasping a little, which pleases me. After a moment his eyes focus.

I run a finger down past his balls, to the warm darkness hidden there, and his eyes widen. "Let me touch you," I say again, and he nods, and there is fear in his eyes, but also a wanting so strong it almost hurts to see. He turns over. I have to catch my breath; his willingness undoes me. His dark hair is fanned out around his head, which is pillowed on his arms. His legs are spread. I want to burn his picture on my eyes.

Softly I kiss him there and he lets out a small cry of surprise and pleasure. I have done this before, with women, but this is different: this is Blair. Blair, I think, tasting him, rolling his first name around my tongue. "Blair," I say, whispering the word into him, and he sighs and relaxes. Soon he is whimpering, and I am harder than I can ever remember being, just from listening to him. Watching him. Tasting him.

I reach blindly for lube, try one finger, then two. His cries change: a little fear, a little pain, but the same heat underlying. I take my time. After a while the fear and the pain are gone, and the heat has increased. The wanting has increased. His breath is a stream of sighs, their delicious catches and half-groans enfolding me.

Somehow I find words again. "Let me inside?" I haven't said it well but he understands.

"Yes," he breathes, and I move to him, and then I am inside him.

I think time stops.

I am shuddering with how good he is, how perfect and tight, and I am shuddering with tears, although I won't admit it later. Crying for who I used to be. Rejoicing for where I am. Which is inside Blair Sandburg. Which is the best thing I know, the best thing I have ever known. I think I am saying these things aloud but it doesn't matter.

And he whispers, "Come inside me," almost inaudible, but I hear him, and it sends me over the edge. "Oh, God, I can feel you," he manages, his voice a study in hoarse pleasure, and follows. We collapse. I am asleep almost immediately. Tangled in Blair, Blair everywhere, around me, in my nose, on my lips. The rest of the night, I do not dream.


End file.
